


Saturdays

by LynnLarsh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Punklock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sundays through Fridays, Molly Hooper was exactly what people assumed of her.  It was because of this that Molly Hooper lived for Saturdays.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturdays

**Author's Note:**

> Fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr is having a Punklock contest right now, and while I may not be entering, I couldn't not write a little something anyway. And since I've never written Mollrene before (but love them to pieces) I decided I'd give it a go. Highschool AU, Puncklock.

Sundays through Fridays, Molly Hooper was exactly what people assumed of her.

To the passing classmate, one might assume Molly was shy or book-wormish, managing to make the boarding school uniform look even frumpier than the regimented expectation. To the average stranger on the street, one might see her pink sweater and lack of makeup as prudish or naïve, her standard up-do reminiscent of a wannabe librarian. To pretty much all who met her, got to talking to her, Molly was kind and sweet and gentle, making the occasional joke but never at someone’s expense. She was pretty but plain, the one everyone went to with their troubles, the one who had a cat named Tobi back home and loved watching movies like Sixteen Candles and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Things like the fact that she found dead bodies fascinating, or that she was secretly studying forensic pathology while her parents assumed she was training to be a doctor, or that every album by the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, and the Clash were tucked in a box under her bed, these were things she kept to herself, secrets not even those she considered her closest friends knew. Molly Hooper was one person on the outside---the one that was expected and anticipated and overlooked---and a completely other person on the inside---the one that was passionate and exciting and dangerous.

It was because of this that Molly Hooper lived for Saturdays.

This Saturday started off no different than the rest, her friends leaving her room with half-hearted attempts to get her to join them for a movie or a concert or something else they all knew she would decline. This was hardly a new occurrence; Saturday was the day Molly Hooper “wasn’t feeling well” or “needed to catch up on school work.” There was rarely any fuss about it, her friends content enough with themselves not to pry too hard to get her to come. Molly chose not to let it bother her, allowing the usual thrill of Saturday to distract her from the sting of it.

The moment the door was closed and locked, her friends’ voices far enough away that she was certain they wouldn’t be coming back, Molly opened her wardrobe and pulled the box down from the top shelf. She opened it up and dug through layer after layer of fabric before finally deciding on the evening’s attire.

“I’ll go with you tonight, I think,” she said with a grin, holding the leather miniskirt with the purple lacing in front of her hips, eyeing herself in the mirror. The deep, purple fishnets would go best with it, she mused. And the long sleeved, black top with the rips on each shoulder, the white sugar skull decal over her right breast, and the low cut dip in both the front and back. The shirt ended just above her belly button, showing more mid-drift than she’d ever worn Sundays through Fridays, but far less than she’d worn on some Saturdays. To finish off the ensemble, Molly fished through the box until she found her purple and blue plaid vest, buttoning it over the shirt and under her chest so that the sugar skull peaked out provocatively. “Perfect,” she nodded, smirking at herself as she took a quick turn in front of the mirror to make sure she hadn’t missed anything that wouldn’t be fixed with makeup and accessories. She deemed it a praise-worthy ensemble and moved on.

From there, it was simple, thanks in large part to the last three years of repetition. For makeup: thick black eyeliner, dark purple eye shadow that she blended in up to her eyebrows and then lightly around both corners of her eye, and red lipstick so dark it looked nearly black. For accessories: silver and black bracelets, a black and purple choker with a silver skull pendant, black knee-high combat boots, and a thick chain that she used as a belt. She also had a similar chain---only much smaller---which latched from the cartilage to the lobe of her ear, connected by her modest, black stud earrings. On multiple occasions, she’d toyed with the idea of getting more piercings---bellybutton, a few more in her ears, maybe a nose stud---but those would be impossible to hide from her friends and family, and she’d been doing so well up till now. There was no use tempting fate.

Finally, once her hair was done---a mild mannered up do, bits of her fringe let loose to frame her face, and a clip-on strip of blue and purple tied in for color---Molly let herself admire the final product. It was years in the making, but Molly had grown more and more confident in her Saturday appearance, the thrill of such drastic transformation never wearing off even as the process became less difficult. With one last wink to herself, Molly slipped out of her room, keeping a wary eye out for familiar faces and taking all the usually avoided back roads to the tube.

It was its own special adrenaline rush, riding on the Tube in her “Saturday-wear.” The looks she got ranged anywhere from appraisal to disapproval to admiration to disgust. She even had a group of fashionably dressed teens make it a point to snicker and point as they got off on their stop. But what was amazing about Saturdays was that it wasn’t Molly they were laughing at. Come Sunday, she could be back on the tube with the same group of girls and they’d never know the difference. It was like wearing a mask, seeing the world from the outside where she couldn’t be touched, not by overprotective parents, not by well-meaning but overbearing friends, not by anyone or anything. And it was marvelous.

Molly got off on her usual Saturday stop, boots clicking as she made her way down the street, the music already drifting on the air from a block away. The club was packed, but she liked that too, liked being undeniably close to people without making contact, watching the interactions take place without being a part of them. It was like what she thought cutting open a cadaver would be like; getting to witness life, take life apart and study life, without actually being affected by life. So, she sauntered in as she always did, weaved her way through the crowd like she always did, and began dancing energetically to the heavy bass the way she always did. When a familiar face jumped into her line of sight, she offered a well-mannered nod or a grin of recognition, but mostly she kept to herself, let the music envelope her.

It took a good three song transitions before she realized she was being watched.

The girl looked no more than a few years older than Molly, her hair loose and wavy sans a section on the right which she’d clipped back, the rest hanging just above her shoulders. Molly couldn’t tell from that distance---the girl was dancing in a group at the other end of the club---but she seemed to be wearing leather pants, fitted tight against long, shapely legs and thighs, her red shirt barely covering the impressive and enviable curve of her ass. Her arms were above her head, swaying as she danced, and her thick, black bracelets moved with her, falling to her elbows as she jumped up and down, before slipping back to her wrists with a swipe of her arms through the air. 

She was beautiful, mesmerizing, and despite the rather large group of boys and girls swarming around her, she seemed perfectly content to attach all of her attention in Molly’s direction. In fact, even if Molly had wanted to deny the blatant focus, the way the girl’s perfectly lined and showed eye winked at her, the way full, tinted lips blew her a kiss, that would have been impossible. Molly chose instead to chock it up to mockery and turned bodily away from that stare.

She’d been feeling a glass of water for the last few minutes anyway, so she took that as her cue to do so, slipping through the crowd and away from prying eyes. She settled herself down at the bar and asked the bartender---a girl named Kara who worked every other Saturday, changed her hair color once a month, and had a wicked smile that made Molly blush---for her usual. She never drank on Saturdays, maybe had a beer or two on Sundays through Fridays when her mates decided she needed to “let loose,” but at the club, it was always a water. She wanted to be aware of every moment, every sensation, every sight and sound and feel of the music vibrating between her feet. Saturdays were the most important days of the week, and she wouldn’t jeopardize that. Which is why, when Kara asked her perfunctory, “You sure you don’t want something stronger? The (insert drink of the week here) is really selling tonight,” Molly would just shake her head and smile. Kara never prodded, and Molly always made sure she got a few quid at the end of the night for that alone.

Once Kara had left her with her water, Molly settled down into the barstool and tilted the glass to her lips.

“You look like an Amaretto Sour,” a voice all but purred in her ear. Molly tipped the glass back too far in her shock, a splatter of water dripping onto her vest before she could save herself. Or her dignity. Molly put the glass on the counter and grabbed for a napkin, wiping up what she could before looking up at her surprise guest. The, “Excuse me,” got lodged in her throat when she recognized who it was.

Up close, the girl was even more attractive, gorgeous even, despite the sheen of sweat from dancing and the few strands of hair trying to pull free from her blood red hair clip. She was leaning on the bar and eyeing Molly with what some might consider criminal intent. Molly just felt over-analyzed, studied, like when she looked at slides under a microscope. Her eyes were a bright bluish-green, made even more prominent by the dark eye-shadow surrounding them. And her lips were perfectly stained a red to match her hair clip and shirt. Blood red and stretched into a lazy, amused smile.

It took far, far too long before Molly realized she hadn’t yet verbally responded to the girl’s presence. What had she said? Something about looking sour? Molly shook her head, opening her mouth to speak and finding her throat unwilling to function. After taking another sip of water---part for her dry throat and part to buy some time---Molly tried again.

“I’m sorry,” she started automatically, reminded at once of the time her father had told her if she could apologize for apologizing, she would. Which she ultimately did a few seconds after. “I look like a what, exactly?”

The girl seemed to approve of her response, stutter and all, pushing herself off the bar and actually taking a seat to Molly’s left. “You look like you might enjoy an Amaretto Sour. I fancy myself a connoisseur of what people like.” Molly didn’t quite know what that meant, but she nodded at the girl anyway and took another sip of her water, assuming that would be the end of it. But the girl was far from done, it seemed. “So are you then? A fan of the Amaretto Sour?” She was leaning her elbow on the counter, resting her cheek in one hand as she watched Molly’s every reaction, as if taking them all in and cataloguing them for later. Molly briefly considered lying, saying that she hated them just to ruffle the girl’s feathers in the hopes of getting her to leave, but even on Saturdays she wasn’t much for lying. And there was something about this girl that, for the first Saturday in years, made her feel like getting to know someone new.

“I’ve never had one,” Molly offered honestly, the girl’s eyes widening a fraction in what even Molly could tell was a feigned and intentionally comical attempt at shock.

“What’s your name?” The girl asked, her smile settling into a smirk, her eyes never leaving Molly’s even as she waved down Kara and motioned her over. Molly couldn’t seem to stop looking back.

“Molly,” she finally replied, a smirk of her own tugging at the corner of her mouth almost involuntarily. “Molly Hooper.”

“Well then, Molly Hooper,” the girl looked away to order an Amaretto Sour and another water, the link between their gazes seeming severed, leaving Molly nearly gasping at the loss. When she looked back, Molly felt that re-connection like a burst of electricity, the girl’s words resonating on a level that seemed tantamount with the way the booming music buzzed beneath her skin. “We’ll just have to remedy that, won’t we? I’m Irene.” She held out her hand and Molly took it without an ounce of hesitation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Irene,” Molly shook her hand once and let go, trying to will herself not to be disappointed in the lack of contact. That’s not what these outings were for. “And thank you, but I don’t drink,” she added once Kara returned with the order. Irene looked at her like she didn’t believe her, so she added, much to her own surprise, “Not on Saturdays.” Molly expected a barrage of questions, or at the very least one---it wasn’t exactly common to abstain from drinking on a particular day, except maybe Sundays for the outstandingly religious---but Irene just continued to smirk.

“I figured as much,” she said, passing Molly the second glass of water. “That’s for you. This one’s for me,” she explained, picking up the glass of pinkish-orange liquid and bringing the straw to her lips. Molly couldn’t help but watch the way her lips circled the straw, the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed. Whether it was because she noticed her stare, or because Molly’s luck was just that good, Irene put the glass back down on the counter and let her head fall back in contentment, the motion accentuating her neck. She even let out a sound that was almost sinful, licking her lips before lowering her head and pushing the drink in Molly’s direction. “Delicious,” she grinned, her teeth pearly and straight, her lips still wet from the drink. And her tongue. Molly swallowed, reaching for the cocktail by way of distraction.

“Just a sip, alright?” Molly offered, not wanting to offend, and secretly curious how any drink could make someone react like that. Irene nodded in agreement, watching as Molly took the drink in hand and raised the straw to her own lips, forcing the childhood thought of indirect kissing from her mind. She took a sip.

It tasted like birthday cake, a little tangy but mostly sweet and so delicious it had Molly moaning her appreciation around the straw before she could stop herself, the sound reaching her ears on delay and sending a rush of heat to her cheeks once her brain caught up with itself. She handed the drink back to Irene, trying not to be embarrassed by the fresh look of amusement on Irene’s face, her expression almost smug as she took another sip of her own.

Molly cleared her throat, the taste of the drink still heavy on her tongue. She licked her own lips and felt a flicker of excitement bloom at the center of her chest when she noticed Irene’s eyes flicking down to watch. “It’s good,” Molly smirked. Irene raised an eyebrow at her.

“Just good? That wasn’t the sound of general approval, that was the sound of orgasmic delight, love.” Irene chided teasingly. The ‘I should know,’ felt heavily implied.

“I wouldn’t go that far!” Molly blanched, stopping herself from throwing a hand over her face in awkwardness. “But you’re right. Better than good. Bloody fantastic, actually.” Molly felt a titter of self-pride at how easily she’d thrown out the curse. Though, by the way Irene was smiling, Molly got the feeling she was aware of just how rarely that happened. For some reason, that made Molly giggle. And then she was laughing, full stop, loud and boisterous and unable to reel it back in. Thankfully, when she looked over at Irene, the girl was laughing too.

“I told you,” Irene said once the last of the giggles had faded. She raised her drink in cheers, to which Molly responded in kind. They clinked their glasses together and Irene threw her a wink. “I know what people like.” That, for some reason, got them laughing all over again.

They spent the rest of the evening in each other’s company, Molly having another few sips of Irene’s Amaretto Sour but mostly sticking to her waters. She’d never wanted to remember a Saturday more. 

They danced to a few songs, but mostly they stayed at the bar and talked. Which Molly was thankful for, considering the way Irene danced. She was free and flowing and all encompassing, and when she tucked herself into Molly, undulating against her, swaying with her, moving her in more ways than one, it was like sex. Molly wasn’t new to sex---she’d fooled around on a few occasions, twice with a boy in her Biology class, and once with a girl back home, a neighbor that she’d known for years and never realized was gay---but those instances were almost experimental, like self-discovery, pushing the boundaries of her comforts and her desires and making mental notes of what felt good, what felt bad, what she liked in men, what she liked in woman. She might as well have had an Excel sheet open.

Dancing with Irene was different. It was like what Molly thought sex was supposed to feel like. Or at least, the precursor to sex. Her body responded without her consent, without her mental check notes and bullet points. Dancing with Irene, having her so near it was almost intimate, made her want to be touched, made her want to touch back. But while Irene seemed inherently flirty, Molly had never been good at reading people, not when it came to things like this. It didn’t matter if it was Saturday or Thursday or Tuesday, she’d never been the most observant. Nor the most daring. Even if Irene was showing an interest, if she was waiting for Molly to make a move, Molly feared she’d be waiting all night. And possibly forever. She’d managed to work herself up to a pretty decent level of bravery over the last three years’ worth of Saturdays, but that level of courage was still a bit outside of her reach.

When they made their way off the dance floor for the second time, much to Molly’s humiliatingly aroused relief, Irene didn’t lead her back to the bar. Instead, she grabbed her hand and pulled her outside into the frigid London air. It was sobering, the blast of cold air reminding her at once that she was wearing very little. Though not nearly as little as Irene, her bare arms covered in gooseflesh within seconds. Before Molly could suggest they go back inside, or at to the covered portion at the front, Irene looped her arm through Molly’s, resting her wrist in the crook of Molly’s elbow. Irene was a good couple of inches taller than her, but the action made Molly feel grander, protective. Far less submissive than she usually felt. So Molly said nothing in complaint as Irene led them down the street for a walk.

“So if you’d rather be a pathologist, why not study that and save yourself the trouble?” Irene asked, jumping right in where they’d left off before their last bout on the dance floor. She tucked herself in closer to Molly’s side, their hips brushing as they walked. “It’s seems a tad counterproductive.”

Molly shrugged, liking the way her body shifted against Irene’s as she did so. They fit together nicely, she had to admit. Like they belonged side by side like this. Two puzzle pieces, and all that. Molly felt a blush tint her cheeks that she was well prepared to blame on the cold, if it came to it. _You’re being awfully sentimental, Molls. Not to mention cliché._

“My family’s full of lawyers, doctors, and professors,” Molly explained, not for the first time wondering why it was so easy to talk to this girl, why it felt like she could trust her, wanted to trust her. Not just with her life story, but with everything. “I had my pick of those, but not much else. And what’s funny is that, for the longest time, I thought being a doctor was what I wanted. I used to do surgeries with my teddy bear when I was little, and when teachers asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was a doctor. Plain and simple. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being about saving people and started being more about _understanding_ people. I liked seeing how people worked, the little variances that make you different from me, the big things that make us all the same. Because we’re all the same, really, on the inside, and nobody seems to notice that. We all have hearts and lungs and livers and kidneys; our brains all function under the same basic principles. The body and mind are wonders both intrinsically linked and entirely individualized from the rest of the world, and that’s fascinating, isn’t it? Sure, working in forensic pathology would mean dealing more with dead bodies than living ones, uncovering the mysteries of death instead of saving lives, but that’s okay, because a cadaver can’t hold anything back. Any secrets left would be there for me to find, and I feel like that’s an honor, you know? You can learn so much more from the dead if you know where to look. It’s like being given a view of the building blocks that make us all-” 

Molly stopped, realizing with a start just how much she’d been talking. No, not talking. Rambling. “Oh God…” Molly groaned, glancing over at Irene and expecting a look of sheer boredom. Or worse, disgust. But instead, Irene was just raising an eyebrow at her. Molly swallowed. “I didn’t mean to go off like that, I just-”

Surely a circuit had tripped in Molly’s brain, because the next thing she knew, Irene’s lips were pressed firmly and eagerly against hers, tongue tickling Molly’s bottom lip in request. Molly forced herself to catch up, parting her lips and letting Irene inside, her eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of that beautiful mouth devouring her own. The kiss was soft and wet and hot and needy, one of Irene’s hands cupping Molly’s cheek, the other resting at the small of her back. Molly found herself threading her fingers through Irene’s hair, drifting down her neck, before settling on Irene’s shoulders as if grounding herself. She felt dizzy and heady and floating on something very much like bliss. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

When Irene finally pulled away, just enough for both of them to stay panting in each other’s mouths, sharing breath, Molly actually surprised herself by groaning in disappointment. Irene licked her lips, eyes heavy and blown wide. Molly was sure hers looked the same.

“I want to see you again,” Irene whispered, their lips brushing with each word. Molly nodded without hesitation, leaning in for another kiss, but then stopped short, realizing her mistake. Irene must have felt the tension in her, pulling back to look at Molly’s face, a question on her lips that Molly had the sudden, desperate need to talk away.

“I can’t,” Molly swallowed. At the look of confused hurt on Irene’s face, Molly backtracked. “I want to! I really, really do, I just…” I’m only like this on Saturdays, didn’t seem like a good enough excuse. Nothing would be, though, so Molly just went with it. “I don’t normally do this. I mean, I’m not… I’m not usually like this.”

Irene smirked, but there was suspicion behind her eyes. “Maybe it’s about time you were.”

Irene couldn’t possibly have known what she meant. _Not usually like this…_ It was more than just her clothes and her secret ventures into the city. On Saturdays, Molly Hooper was a completely different person. Every other day, she was someone far less exciting, someone far less confident. Every other day, she was someone Irene wouldn’t possibly want to see again, even if she didn’t realize it. So Molly decided to make the move for her, save her the guilt. It was the least she could do. She owed her that much for giving her the best Saturday she’s ever had.

“I can’t,” Molly pulled away, forcing her hands to drop to her sides, her eyes to look anywhere but at Irene’s crestfallen face. “Thank you, but I can’t.” _You deserve someone like this, someone like the me I pretend to be. Someone who can be that for you every day, not just on Saturdays._ She almost said it, almost explained everything, but she knew it would just make things harder. And yet, as she turned to leave, she found herself whispering, “Maybe if I was braver.”

 

When Molly returned to the club the following Saturday, Irene wasn’t there. Despite her nervousness, Molly hadn’t realized how hopeful she’d been, not until the disappointment of that fact had tears prickling behind her eyes. She didn’t disagree with her decision---better to let Irene go than force her to suffer the awkwardness of Molly’s company on a day other than Saturday---but that didn’t mean she didn’t regret it. Irene had been beautiful and smart and intelligent and very, very much into Molly. Were it not for the looming presence of her usual life, Molly thought it had been nearly perfect. Gloriously so. And still, she’d thrown it all away over the assumption that Irene would have rejected her other self, found her too broken and submissive and not worth her time. 

But for all Molly knew, Irene might not have cared. Irene might have wanted to get to know them both, might have joined her on Saturdays and studied with her on Wednesdays. She might have invited her out to dinner on Fridays or to the movies on Tuesdays. For all Molly knew, Irene could have had a secret life of her own. No one was exactly who they appeared to be when they went clubbing, were they? It was about escaping normal life, taking a couple of hours to dance in the darkness among strangers. Irene could have been just like Molly, just looking for someone to connect with, no matter the day of the week.

And Molly had ruined it.

She didn’t even bother staying at the club that night, her frustration at herself tainting the atmosphere beyond repair. Possibly ruining her Saturdays from here on out. She could have had something special, and she’d mucked it all up because she was too scared to mix her Saturdays with the rest of her week. She was too scared to see what life could be like if she studied what she wanted, dressed the way she wanted, acted the way she wished she could. Irene could have helped her with that. Irene could have been the first step into becoming the person she’d wanted to be and she’d-

“You get this adorable little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you think too hard. Were you aware?”

Molly spun around out of reflex, eyes frozen wide. Irene was leaning against the wall just by the front entrance to the club, arms crossed casually over her chest and covered in red fishnet. She looked even more stunning than last week, her makeup fresh and her ensemble tempting. She had on a red and back, plaid dress that hugged every curve of her body, flaring out just so at the bottom. It had a diamond cut out at the top to accentuate her cleavage and a connected plaid choker that wrapped perfectly around her neck. All her accents---belt dipping low on her left hip, thick upper arm bands, knee high boots---were a shiny, black leather. She made Molly feel under dressed.

“You look nice,” Molly heard herself squeak. She bit back the embarrassment that flooded her face, thankful again for the cold as an alibi. Irene just smiled at her, though there was something in her eyes that looked off, restrained.

“You look flustered,” Irene replied, taking a step forward and tucking a loose strand of hair behind Molly’s ear. “But adorable.” Certainly her cheeks had to be dyed red by now, what with the heat Molly felt settling beneath her skin. She took a step back, willing the words in her head to come before she changed her mind.

Unfortunately, the only thing that managed to come out was, “I signed up for a Forensic Science lab.”

Irene raised an eyebrow at her in confusion, but smiled all the same. “Good for you. I’m glad,” she said, and Molly could tell that she meant it. Molly didn’t know why it mattered, or how it had anything to do with Irene, but it did. It had everything to do with her.

“I only come here on Saturdays,” Molly went on, straightening her shoulders at the rush of confidence that settled over her. Irene chuckled.

“I know.”

Molly tried not to be flattered that Irene had noticed her presence, but she failed. “No, no. I mean, this,” she gestured to her outfit and personage entire. “The way that I am right now, the way that I was last week, that version of me only happens on Saturday. The rest of the time I’m shy and awkward and I never get dressed up or talk out of turn or flirt with beautiful girls, and when it comes to school or family or life, I always do what’s expected, what people tell me to do. But then last week happened.” She captured Irene’s gaze and held it. “You happened. And I was too afraid to do anything about it. I was too afraid and too foolish, because I was certain you’d realize that I wasn’t like this at all, that I was just pretending to be someone I wished I was and I… I couldn’t stand the thought of it. But then, I was standing outside of the Forensics Lab and I just, I wanted to take it, so I did. Just like that. It was so simple! And it made me realize, the only one stopping me from being the person I want to be… is me.” Molly took a breath, waiting for Irene to roll her eyes or laugh or walk away, but Irene just smiled softly, shaking her head.

“And I helped you discover all that?” She asked, only half teasing. Molly smirked.

“You might have had a bit to do with it, yeah.” Swallowing back her nervousness, Molly wrapped her arms around Irene’s waist and pulled her in. “You made me realize that I can be both. If I can fall for an amazing, charming, and absolutely gorgeous girl on Saturday, than why give that up when the makeup comes off and the black leather gets replaced with a pink sundress?”

“Now that, I’d like to see,” Irene giggled, but Molly just narrowed her eyes, sticking out her tongue in defiance.

“What I’m saying, is that I’m willing to let you see who I am any day of the week.” Molly whispered, her nerves spiking again, but not enough to silence her. “I want you to.”

“You know,” Irene whispered after a moment, lowering her lips to Molly’s forehead. “I don’t think you’re as different as you pretend to be.” She pulled away for a moment, eyes gazing warmly into Molly’s. “The way you act around family or friends, the way you act here, all the secrets you keep, they’re all a part of who you are. And when you finally get around to studying Forensic Pathology properly, or maybe throw on a plaid miniskirt one Monday just to shake things up, it won’t be because you’ve finally decided to combine the two parts of yourself. It’ll be because you’ve finally realized they were both you to begin with. And when you’re comfortable with yourself, everyone else will be too. At least, that’s what I’ve come to believe.”

Molly blinked. The action brought notice to the tears in her eyes, so she looked away, resting her forehead on Irene’s shoulder and chuckling shakily to herself. “Amazing, charming, absolutely gorgeous, and _brilliant_. How did I ever get so lucky?”

“By being yourself,” Irene chuckled back. “And by being sinfully attractive last week. No fool would have passed up the opportunity.” Molly went to object, but Irene seemed to anticipate it, using that moment to dip her head down and steal another kiss, Molly’s lips parting without hesitation. 

When they finally broke away, panting and dizzy and clinging to each other desperately, Irene cleared her throat, licking her lips before she spoke. “So pink sundresses, huh? Should I also anticipate floral jumpers? Trousers with hearts etched around the pockets? Little white nickers with bows on the front?”

Molly groaned, but she could tell the jibes were good-natured so she topped it off with a grin. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” The look Irene gave her was damn near criminal.

“If you’re really wearing little white knickers right now, I will not be held responsible for relieving you of them.”

Molly laughed. “I haven’t worn those since lower school.” Then, she leaned in and whispered in Irene’s ear. “More recently it’s been all about black lace. Will I be needing you to relieve me of those as well?”

Irene chuckled, the sound like electricity singing in Molly’s veins. “I’d consider it a crime that I haven’t already.” Then, as if to emphasize her point, Irene leaned in for another kiss, Molly’s knees going weak and her heart pounding against her chest. If this was what came from being herself, every version of herself, Molly thought she might be willing to aim for doing it every day of the week.


End file.
